The Otherworldlies (19 page)

“Hello, Mary Lou,” Alistair said, holding a dark leather briefcase in his left hand. Sam and Fern rushed to the front window to look at what might be parked in the driveway.

There had been a lot of speculation as to what kind of car Mr. Alistair Kimble drove. Because he worked such odd hours, very few people had ever seen him behind the wheel. The McAllister twins marveled at what stood parked in their stone driveway.

A white truck, with
RALPH’S GROCERY STORES
emblazoned on both sides next to pictures of large heirloom tomatoes and even larger juicy steaks, engulfed the entire driveway. After counting all eighteen wheels on the strange vehicle, Fern recognized Mr. Bing in the driver’s seat. Everyone, it seemed, was playing hooky today. He was dressed in a red flannel shirt and looked much more casual than usual.

Before long, Mr. Kimble was in the living room sitting on the couch with Mrs. McAllister. Fern and Sam turned away from the window, and both sat on the sill with their legs dangling.

“Fern, I told your mother that I wanted a minute to discuss this with everybody.”

“Go ahead and discuss it then,” Fern said while rolling her eyes, on edge.

“As your mother has informed you, you will be placed in my protective custody for the next week until we discern what, exactly, Vlad is planning.”

“Where are you going to take me?”

“Headquarters. It’s a compound also known by the name New Tartarus.”

“Where is that?”

“I cannot provide you with that information.”

“What does that mean?”

“Fern, I don’t even know where you’re going,” Mrs. McAllister said. “But you’ll find out and you’ll call me and check in every day. Mr. Kimble’s going to give you his cell phone.”

“I’m not going,” Fern said, growing defiant.

“You must!” Mrs. McAllister said.

“I’m not going,” repeated Fern, “unless Sam comes with me.”

Sam perked up.

“I’m sorry, Fern, but we cannot accommodate that request,” Alistair Kimble remarked flatly.

“Well, then, I’ll just have to take my chances with Vlad trying to kill me.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Mrs. McAllister snapped.

Fern’s eyes flashed. “Vlad told me a few things that you might find interesting, but I guess there’s no need to tell you now,” she said.

“You haven’t told me everything, Fern?” Mrs. McAllister scowled. Fern was acting so out of character. Mr. Kimble stroked his beard and remained the calmest one in the room.

“You never asked,” Fern shot back.

“We may just be able to work something out,” he said, getting up from the couch. “If you’ll excuse me for one moment while I make a phone call.” He walked into the kitchen and let the door shut behind him.

The McAllisters stared at one another. Mrs. McAllister searched for something to say. Fern had never talked back before. Her daughter was changing before her very eyes.

“Fern, I know you don’t want to go, but believe me when I say I’m the last person who would send you somewhere if I didn’t think it was absolutely necessary,” she said.

Alistair Kimble walked back in the room.

“I’ve made the arrangements. They’ll allow it this once, but I reserve the right to send Sam home at any time.”

Sam was astonished. Almost every part of him wanted to tag along with Fern and make sure she was all right, but there was a small fraction of him that was deeply afraid. He suppressed his fear.

“Do I need to pack anything?” he asked. Fern perked up too, realizing she hadn’t thought about what she would need for the week.

“No. You will be well looked after. Pajamas, toothbrushes—we have all that,” Mr. Kimble said formally, before pulling his sleeve up to look at his watch. “We’d better get on the road, as they’re expecting us.”

Fern felt queasy. Had Fern known that Sam’s stomach was experiencing the same kind of panic, she might have taken some comfort in it. Both twins put on their brave faces.

“Wait just one second,” the Commander said, unwilling to accept this new change of plan. “I never agreed to letting you take both children. If you can make arrangements for Sam, why can’t you make them for me?”

“Bringing along Sam is already testing the patience of most of the Assembly, Mrs. McAllister. What’s more, he’s a child!”

“Mom, it’ll be fine. It’s better this way. I’ll give Fern some company. Someone has to be here to tell Eddie what’s going on when he gets home from school.”

Mrs. McAllister’s agitation subsided slightly, but she was still angry. “Alistair, I don’t think there is a single step in this process that you haven’t bungled somehow. I’ll let Sam and Fern go, but only because I don’t feel I have a choice. Take them with the knowledge that if anything should happen to them, I’m holding you responsible,” she said as her jaw jutted out, completing the look of unremitting wrath that had overtaken her face.

In his days as a district head, Alistair Kimble had battled five Hundred-Handers at one time, and still he preferred their slimy vileness to the fearsome glare of Mary Lou McAllister. As Mr. Kimble walked out of the McAllister house, with their Maltese nipping at his heels, he hoped he would not be back under such unpleasant circumstances.

Chapter 15
the atlas ride

T
he back doors of the truck swung open.

“Good mornin’,” Joseph Bing said, stepping down from the bed of the truck. In the past, he might have appeared slightly grandfatherly in his janitor’s garb, but now the image was complete. Mr. Kimble wasted no time climbing into the back of the huge Mack truck only partially parked in the McAllister driveway (the rest hung out into the street). After saying good-bye to their mother on the porch, Sam and Fern ran toward Bing. They climbed the two stairs into the truck bed, full of anticipation.

Fern gasped.

The inside of that Ralph’s Grocery truck was the single most marvelous thing she’d ever laid eyes on. Fern’s fear and anxiousness dissipated in the cold air of the truck. Antique mirrors adorned walls with velvet lining. Oriental rugs lined the floors. Brown leather recliners faced out from both walls, each chair with its own dark maple table and flat-screen monitor. Blue tear-drop glass light fixtures hung from the ceiling and several bookcases gave the room a library feel. Sam followed Fern, gasping himself at the swanky furnishings matched with state-of-the-art technology.

“I’m glad you’re coming along with us today,” Bing said jubilantly. “I’d best be getting up to the driver’s seat, but enjoy your first ride on the Atlas!” He then disappeared behind a curtain at the end of the room. As Bing drew back the curtain, Fern noticed that this narrow room gave way to another compartment on a platform a few steps above the one they were in.

“If you two get seated, we can be on our way,” Mr. Kimble said, businesslike, pointing to the leather recliners.

Sam looked at Mr. Kimble, puzzled. “Are we on the
Air Force One
of eighteen-wheelers?” he asked.

“Planes can be too easily traced,” Mr. Kimble said. “So we must use ground transportation.”

“Sir?”

A creature had come through the curtain and down the steps, and was now standing in front of the group. Patches of mud-colored hair grew from its compact body. Where there was an absence of hair there was rough skin the color and texture of tree bark. The beast was Fern’s height, but must have weighed three times as much. He had ears like small bugles, shoulders the size of sandbags, large flat feet, and toenails the color of newly cut grass. He was wearing a pair of battered OshKosh B’Gosh overalls. In the center of the creature’s face, one large black eye blinked as it scanned the room.

“Sir?” the creature asked again. His voice, high and thin, reminded Fern of Sam’s when he plugged his nose. The voice was strange enough on its own, but coming from the mouth of this squat beast, it seemed stranger still.

“Sir, I just wanted to make sure that it was permissible to begin our route.”

“Of course, Telemus, please proceed.”

The creature, hindered by his large feet, waddled back up the stairs and closed the curtain behind him.

“What in the—,” Fern began, overcoming her initial speechlessness.

“Shhh,” Mr. Kimble said, putting his index finger to his mouth. After pausing for a moment, he began.

“Telemus is a Cyclops. They are known for being extremely sensitive, so please refrain from making any comments. The last thing we need is a cranky Cyclops on board.” Fern and Sam were expecting Mr. Kimble to laugh, but he did not.

“Telemus is young, so he’s extraordinarily susceptible to bouts of moodiness,” Mr. Kimble continued in a low voice. “They take fifty years or so to grow to full size.”

“How full is that?” Sam asked.

“Most are over eight feet tall.”

“What kind of animal is it related to?”

“Cyclopes are not animals at all. They are loosely related to the giant family, to be precise. By the time they’re fully grown, they’re not very useful in a setting like this because of their height.”

“How old is Telemus?” Fern asked.

“Telemus is about your age, I believe.”

“Why haven’t I
ever
seen one of those before?” Sam said, still in disbelief. “Where
are
we?”

“Cyclopes have existed for centuries. However, they’ve been hunted so viciously in recent times, few remain. Those that do remain live underground and in hiding.”

“Why have they been hunted?”

“Because human beings make a practice of destroying what they cannot explain. Cyclopes are a reminder of a past left behind long ago.”

“What does Telemus do?” Fern asked.

“He runs all of the equipment here on the Atlas,” Mr. Kimble said. He looked tired from answering questions, but then perked up a bit after a long look at Fern and Sam. “I can show you the control room, if you like,” he said, trying to act gracious, but not knowing how.

Sam and Fern nodded in agreement. Mr. Kimble got out of his seat and pulled the curtain back. Bright light streamed out of the opening. Sam and Fern followed Mr. Kimble, stepping up into the smaller room.

Sam and Fern could have sworn they were back outside the Atlas. Bushes were growing out of planters jutting from every inch of wall, crawling up the walls in an evenly spaced pattern. White flowers adorned most plants. The abundance of sunlight made the room hot and steamy. There must have been over twenty bushes, and each was ignited with a blue flame surrounding an image. Every image was different, but each was shaped in a circle. Fern realized exactly what she was observing: Sagebrushes of Hyperion!

She looked up. A glass panel, tinted green, bubbled out like a huge skylight, letting in the California sun. No wonder it felt as if she were outside. Telemus the Cyclops sat in the middle of the space in a swivel chair with two feet of maneuvering room on each side. Telemus’s eye roved across each bush. It looked as if he was taking them all in at once. He turned his chair from one side to the other, keeping his amazing eye attuned to everything.

“We call this the mobile greenhouse,” Alistair Kimble said. Fern thought he made a pretty lousy tour guide and had about as much passion as Mrs. Stonyfield did when she talked about why she had become a teacher. But he did seem to be trying. “It allows us to monitor events while we travel. We also get clearer images with real sunlight. It’s our most effective surveillance system.”

“Does, um, Telemus monitor everything all the time?” Sam asked, having to stop himself from saying “the monster” in place of the Cyclops’s actual name.

“Things are not always as they seem. Telemus does with one eye what we would need twenty eyes for. He’s exceptional at processing a lot of information at once,” Mr. Kimble said. “Cyclopes have a real talent for that. Of course, there is a few seconds’ delay.”

“So these are all Sagebrushes?”

“Yes, they are. I understand you both got an education on their powers from Miss Lin,” Mr. Kimble said, displeased.

“What is he keeping track of?”

“Anything and everything. Activity in all the districts, what’s going on at headquarters, the rival movement, abuse of powers. We switch what we monitor from time to time, which means we must cultivate new bushes depending on the intelligence we get from our network, whether it be from vigilantes or district heads.”

“Don’t people mind that you’re spying on them?”

“It’s for their own protection,” Mr. Kimble said dismissively. “Cyclopes can also smell a Blout coming a mile away, which we find tremendously helpful.”

“That’s because they stink, sir,” Telemus said without taking his eye off the bushy walls, still swiveling back and forth.

Fern looked down, hoping no one witnessed the process of her cheeks turning red. Her veins flowed with nervous energy. She inched away from Telemus so he couldn’t smell the Blout in her.

“We should return to our seats,” Mr. Kimble said. “Mr. Bing informed me before we left that it may be a bit bumpy.”

Sam and Fern each took a leather recliner. As soon as Fern sat down, she realized how tired she was. She struggled to keep her eyes open.

“Pssst, Fern.” Sam was leaning over Fern’s table, speaking in a low voice. “Turn on your monitor.”

Fern looked to her left and pushed the toggle switch on the bottom of the black screen. It flashed on, displaying Joseph Bing, flannel shirt and all, in the driver’s seat. Mr. Kimble waved at Fern and Sam from their screens.

“Now hit alternate view,” Sam said, leaning over again. The pictured changed to the view from the passenger side window. Sam and Fern remained captivated by the video feed as they passed the nuclear power plants at San Onofre. At this hour, the Pacific was gray and the sand looked damp. It wasn’t long before a train passed by, half-empty, gliding along the tracks between the interstate and the ocean.

“I see you’ve figured out how to work the view box,” Mr. Kimble said. He’d meant to disconnect the feed before the children boarded, but in the confusion, forgot. Normally he would have worried that they’d be able to discern the secret location of New Tartarus. But Kimble knew Kenneth Quagmire would see to it that they remembered nothing from their trip. “We don’t have any windows in the back,” Mr. Kimble explained. “Telemus installed the cameras himself.”

“Are we headed south? On the five?” Fern asked.

“Yes,” Mr. Kimble said. “New Tartarus is the unofficial Vampire Alliance headquarters. It also contains several other facets of the V.A.”

They were just south of Camp Pendleton Marine Base and the racetrack at Del Mar. Before long, they could see the San Diego skyline in the distance. The truck was soon bending along Mission Bay in San Diego.

The screen fuzzed over and then went blank. The truck began to sway. Fern could tell they were gathering speed. She put her recliner upright and gripped the armrests.

The screen blinked back on. They were zooming along beside San Diego Bay, heading straight for Coronado Island. The Coronado Bay Bridge looked like a giant blue snake teetering on white stilts above them. The truck didn’t slow down, barreling ahead, getting closer and closer to the water’s edge. With a sharp turn, they were off road, bouncing through the gravel alongside the street. Fern looked over at Sam, who had closed his eyes and turned almost completely white.

“We’re headed straight for the water!” Fern said, watching the screen. Mr. Kimble calmly closed his eyes and leaned back, staying absolutely still.

“THREE SECONDS TO IMPACT!” Telemus bellowed from the other compartment.

A forceful slap hit the front of the truck. The noise was deafening. The sound of the truck crashing into the azure water of San Diego Bay obscured Fern’s piercing scream. The water thundered all around them. The truck rolled back and forth and Fern felt upside down for a moment. The lights and monitors flicked off completely.

Fern felt as if she were on a roller coaster with only loops and no lights. She wanted desperately to teleport somewhere, like back to her bed, but knew she would never forgive herself if she left Sam here alone to fend for himself.

The rumble of the motor stopped abruptly.

The cabin was now still, silent, and dark. Seconds passed. Fern tried to find her brother in the darkness. She wished that the Commander hadn’t allowed her to come on this death trip. She wanted to be anywhere but inside the grocery truck. She wanted to scream out to Sam that she was sorry for making him come along. All this was her fault. Vlad wasn’t half as scary as sitting in the dark, listening to the truck creak beneath them as if it had fallen into a black hole. There was no escape. They were doomed.

“Bing,” Mr. Kimble finally shouted through the darkness, “you’re out of practice.” He sounded disgusted. “That was the absolute worst approach I’ve seen in a long time. You almost missed the tunnel.”

“Took a few seconds to get the rust off, for sure, Alistair,” Mr. Bing’s voice answered back, full of the humor that Mr. Kimble’s lacked.

“I apologize for not warning you children,” Mr. Kimble said, now addressing the cabin. “But I think one’s better off if one doesn’t expect it.”

Fern couldn’t believe that everything in the truck had remained in place.

“Where . . . ,” Sam said, out of breath. “Where are we?”

“We are most likely under the Hotel Del Coronado by now,” Mr. Kimble said.

“We’re
under
Coronado Island?!” Fern said.

“Yes,” Mr. Kimble said, knowing that the children would not be permitted to remember any of this.

“Where is New Tartarus?” Sam asked. “Under Coronado?”

“It starts at North Island and continues from there.”

“The naval base?”

“There’s no safer place for an underground complex than underneath a military base, I assure you,” Mr. Kimble said.

“FIVE SECONDS TO ARRIVAL!” Telemus said, his high-pitched voice filling the cabin.

“Hold on this time!” Mr. Bing’s voice boomed over the rattle of the compartment.

The truck lurched forward as Sam’s and Fern’s seat belts tightened around their torsos. The truck then jerked backward as the tangle of the twins’ bodies slammed back against their seats. The lights blinked on.

“Whoa,” Sam said, brushing himself off as he got up and tried to get reoriented.

Mr. Kimble, still sitting, rose and calmly walked to the back doors of the van. He opened them. Bright light flooded into the truck. Anxious to be on solid ground, Sam and Fern followed the light. Fern hopped out first.

They were in a concrete room. The Atlas, dripping water but still in remarkably good shape, was parked in the center of the room. Despite the abrupt stop, not one of the eighteen rubber wheels had left a skid mark—just a damp trail. Gray concrete engulfed them. Fern estimated the ceilings at fifteen feet. Large oak doors stood on both sides of the room. Over one, there was a sign that read
BAY TUNNEL
in large brass letters. Over the other, there was a sign that read
NEW TARTARUS
in the same brass lettering.

Joseph Bing stepped out of the driver’s seat and knocked on the New Tartarus door. A small grate slid open. One midnight eye, complete with a gray lid and thick dark lashes, stared out at the new arrivals. Telemus waddled to the grate, which stood at exactly his height—about four feet, five inches.

“Greetings, Telemar,” he said. “It is I, Telemus. I have in my possession District Head Alistair Kimble, Vigilante Bing, and two visitors who request the right to be granted entrance.” His voice bounced off the concrete walls and filled the room.